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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26600269">Absinthe in Absentia</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/slovelace/pseuds/slovelace'>slovelace</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1920s, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Guro, Historical, Horror, Incest, M/M, No Smut, Short Story, Sibling Incest, Splatterpunk, Vivisection, World War I, extreme horror - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:40:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,857</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26600269</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/slovelace/pseuds/slovelace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A young lordling plots with his half-brothers to take righteous vengeance on their father. </p><p>(Extreme Horror/Splatterpunk. Non-graphic incest. Read the tags.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Absinthe in Absentia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Contrary to popular belief, absinthe does not have psychotropic properties. What it does have, however, is an alcohol content of around seventy percent, a gorgeous anise flavour, and a bad reputation. This trifecta of characteristics is something that’s impossible for Dirk to resist. It’s his go-to drink anywhere that has it, especially at a lordling’s gathering where top-shelf liquor was guaranteed, even when prohibited.</p><p>Unfortunately, due to its illegality, the absinthe ritual had fallen out of general practice, but Dirk’s prepared; he always carries a slotted spoon, sugar cubes and a pipette with him. Call him old-fashioned, but he thinks absinthe without louching is like sex without pain; it’s only good if you’ve never had the alternative.</p><p>Dirk closes his eyes, feels the blood pound through his veins, the gramophone music thump in his ears, the alcohol thrum through his brain. His left hand is in his trouser pocket, fingering the handle of a switchblade. It’s like the knife has a pulse of its own, a his fingers conducting its vitality of violence.</p><p>He’s somehow tipsy and lucid at the same time, threaded through with euphoria.</p><p>Stephen looks at him from behind the bar, twirling a martini glass by the stem between his first two fingers. “Having fun?”</p><p>Dirk rests his elbow on the counter, leaning towards him. “I’d be having more fun if you were on this side of the bar.”</p><p>Stephen smiles. “Patience. You’re always so eager.”</p><p>“Never heard you complain about that before.” Dirk slides his glass over. “Another. And might as well pour one for yourself.”</p><p>“Merci, mon amour.”</p><p>“Quiet,” says Dirk, looking around quickly. “You don’t know who’s listening.”</p><p>“Doesn’t matter if anyone hears. Doesn’t even matter if I do this.” He reaches out to pull him in by his tie, but Dirk steps adroitly aside.</p><p>“It <em>does </em>matter. I’m not getting thrown out of here before the fun begins.”</p><p>Stephen merely raises his eyebrows in response.</p><p>“Patience,” Dirk parrots with a sly grin. “The dinner’s in less than half an hour.” Stephen passes him his newly-refilled glass. Shades of absinthe varied; this one was a gorgeous verdant green, like lush forest vegetation. The colour of life.</p><p>~</p><p>Arthur Remington surveys his kingdom with pursed lips, tapping his fingernail idly against his champagne flute. His eyes flick to where Stephen and Dirk are talking, and smiles. As though sensing his gaze, Dirk turns his head, and meets his eye. He grins in a way that can only be described as lascivious, and Remy feels warmth bloom across his cheeks. He downs his champagne hastily, immediately feeling the buzz through his head.</p><p>The cocktail party is going very well, if Remy does say so himself. There was some muttering about the dearth of servants, but nobody was suspicious about anything but the household’s finances, or lack thereof. Some people were also talking about Remy’s father’s absence, but again, this wasn’t too suspicious – the elder Remington didn’t get along too well with the younger, or indeed anyone. The thing that <em>should</em> have tipped them off was the gramophone – absolutely nobody would host a cocktail party without a string quartet in the corner, not even those who could apparently only afford two servants front of house.</p><p>He glances towards the grandfather clock, momentarily mesmerised by the swaying of the pendulum, and for an instant, all Remy can hear is its deep sonorous ticking. Snapping out of his trance when the bell tolls nine, he rings the dinner gong.</p><p>“Gentlemen,” begins Remy.</p><p>~</p><p>Dirk and Stephen move towards him, walking along the sides of the room almost unnoticed, Stephen carrying a bottle of champagne and Dirk still holding his glass of absinthe. Not for the first time, Dirk is struck by how similar Remy is to him and Stephen.</p><p>If Dirk and Stephen are night and day, Remy is sunset. He’s an eerie blend of the two of them: his burnt umber hair midway between Stephen’s deep mahogany and Dirk’s strawberry blond; he has Dirk’s high cheekbones but Stephen’s button nose; Dirk’s smattering of freckles but Stephen’s slight overbite. He was far taller, though, with five inches on Dirk and six on Stephen.</p><p>They reach him, Stephen filling up Remy’s glass before taking his place behind him, beside Dirk. Twin sentinels.</p><p>“Thank you very much for coming to my little soiree tonight. As you all know, today is my twenty-first birthday. It also happens to be the first anniversary of the Great War armistice. I thought this could also be a celebration of the fact that we’re no longer in a living hell. Of course, by <em>we, </em>I mean myself. Seeing as none of you fought in the war.”</p><p>The polite smiles of the fifteen guests immediately drop, and a frisson of anticipation runs up Dirk’s spine.</p><p>“But that isn’t a sin on its own, of course. I’m a big proponent of conscientious objection. But you weren’t conscientious objectors, oh no. Quite the opposite. You didn’t want shame upon your family, so you made your sons join instead. None of them wanted to be there, unlike most young men who signed up; none of them were also <em>supposed </em>to be there. Some of you lied about their age, most of you lied about their medical conditions. Conditions like short-sightedness, which contributed directly to their death and soldiers under their command. You forced them into months, and in some cases years, of unending hell in those fucking trenches, and then to their deaths, all because you wanted the glory of the war without any of the guts. You’re all too old to be conscripted, but you <em>could </em>have joined. You just didn’t want to get off your arses.”</p><p>The guests are now visibly agitated, not just discomfited. One man at the back tries to sli out, unnoticed, only to find the doors locked. He rattles the door desperately, drawing attention and causing the angry mutterings to evolve into shouts. When ringing the gong had no effect, Remy holds his hand out, and Dirk obediently places his service revolver in his hand. Remy cocks it, and fires it into the ceiling. There’s no sound except for the gentle sound of falling fragments of plaster.</p><p>A few moments later, someone shouts out, “Why are you saying this? Why the devil did you bring us here?”</p><p>“You wouldn’t go to the trenches, so I’m bringing the trenches to you.”</p><p>In the few seconds while Remy’s words sink in, the three of them perform a carefully choreographed move they’d practiced a thousand times. They launch themselves to the already open window, Remy slamming it shut behind him and securing the padlocks after he rolls a shell across the floor. They move away from the window, breathing in the evening air deeply before they’re sure any small particles of gas have dissipated, before peering back into the house.  The windows have been cleaned for this very event, and they have an almost unimpeded view of what’s happening inside.</p><p>“And it’s definitely safe to be this close to the window?” asks Stephen.</p><p>“Yes!” snaps Remy. “They’ve been sealed with the absolute latest in airtight technology.”</p><p>“You’d better be right, because –“</p><p>“Shut up and enjoy the spectacle.”</p><p>The artillery shell had been filled with mustard gas and another, proprietary chemical Remy had paid an extortionate amount of money for. Mustard gas was all well and good, but despite what some poets would tell you, did not kill immediately – or even reasonably soon, and the vermin in Remy’s entertaining parlour did not merit attention for hours.</p><p>“What the hell did you put in there?” asks Dirk, visibly awed.</p><p>Remy winks. “It’s a secret, darling.”</p><p>There’s two primary reactions to Remy’s cocktail; half the company grab their eyes, the other their throats. They clawed at the tender skin on their throats as though they wished to rip it off in shreds, exposing their tracheae and ending their misery quickly.</p><p>But Remy is not so merciful.</p><p>First comes the blistering. It seems reasonably innocuous at first, the thin white layer of the epidermis peeling to reveal rosy skin behind, the same as a sunburn. But they quickly devolve to bubbling blisters that pierce straight through the first two layers of skin to the subcutaneous tissue, fat dripping down their arms as though they were caught in a blaze. They pull at their clothes, alternately stretching them tighter around their torsos and pulling them looser. It is a shame nylon is only really used in ladies’ stockings, because Remy has been assured that the chemicals would make plastic melt into skin beautifully, like futuristic skin grafts.</p><p>Their faces are contorted in screams that are inaudible due to the windows’ sealant. Remy comments that it’s a shame they cannot hear, whereas Dirk thinks it lends the show more theatricality, almost like they’re watching one of these new-fangled moving pictures, an illusion heightened somewhat by the jerkiness of their movements.</p><p>“You’ll be pleased to hear this is just the aperitif,” says Remy. “Follow me.”</p><p>Dirk and Stephen exchange a look as they follow Remy. Nobody in the front parlour has died yet, but that suits them perfectly; they do not deserve to have their final moments observed. They deserve to die alone, unwitnessed, and anonymous, like the legions that perished in the trenches.</p><p>“Come,” says Remy. “Follow me. ‘Round the back and through the kitchen; the gas shouldn’t reach us there.”</p><p>~</p><p>Remy makes the first incision with a Japanese vegetable knife he’d bought from Harrods on his last trip into London town. He usually uses the knife for its intended purpose, much to his father’s dismay. The only thing worse than someone highborn tinkering in the kitchens was when they were male. The knife was a beautiful thing, able to slice vegetables so fine they’re translucent. Radishes and carrots especially make a gorgeous garnish.</p><p>Remy hands Stephen the knife. Although not a doctor, armed with the latest edition of Gray’s <em>Anatomy of the Human Body</em> and an almost infinite reservoir of patience, he has become enviously precise.</p><p>His finger traces the arch of the aorta almost reverently, then cuts through the trio of arteries above in a single, smooth motion. It’s not as satisfying as a live specimen, but Remy assures him their next course will please him greatly.</p><p>“I thought this would help temper your bloodlust, so you aren’t tempted to kill the next one so quickly,” Remy adds.</p><p>Dirk slides his arms around Stephen’s waist from the back, kissing his neck. “Good idea. He can get a little overexcited sometimes.”</p><p>Stephen smiles, but does not allow himself to be distracted. He cuts the superior and inferior venae cavae, the pulmonary vessels, the descending aorta. He doesn’t do it as well as a surgeon, but he’s impressively close for someone who’s never had a day of medical training. Some people – perhaps even most people – say it’s impossible to teach oneself something, but Stephen would reply that they simply lack tenacity. Some of the greatest geniuses, both alive and dead, are autodidacts. It often grates on Stephen that he can’t show his genius to the world, but at least Dirk and Remy are here to appreciate him, and they’re pretty much the only people whose opinions Stephen values.</p><p>The heart is not Stephen’s favourite organ, but it is Dirk’s. He holds it out, and Dirk’s arms pull away from him so he can take it, the sudden loss of his warmth sending a shiver through him.</p><p>The heart’s still warm as Dirk raises it to his lips. He bites down hard into the left atrium, and the crimson liquid bursts into his mouth, drips down his chin. It’s still as warm – perhaps warmer – than the heart, and Dirk fancies he can feel the life leaving it, sparking over his tongue along with the familiar taste of bittersweet iron. He sucks as much of it into him as he can, gulping it down like ambrosia, knowing his stomach will grumble at him later but considering it a worthy pay-off. He manages to sever a small chunk of flesh from the organ, swallowing it, and Stephen can’t help but make a face. He admires the primal instinct in Dirk, but can’t help but abhor his lack of gastronomic tendencies.</p><p>He’s pretty enough for Stephen to put up with it, though.</p><p>Sometimes, Stephen thinks that’s why Dirk clings so much to traditional cultural rituals, like the absinthe. If he seems sophisticated enough, he thinks he can hide the maelstrom of brutality that simmers beneath his skin, the craving to dive deep into his basest nature and pull Stephen willingly down with him.</p><p>Remy jumps up from his chair, all but vibrating with anticipation. “Now for the surprise!”</p><p>Stephen casts him a look. “Now who’s getting overexcited?”</p><p>Ignoring him, Remy draws back the curtain that partitions one half of the cellar from the other. “Voila.”</p><p>A familiar figure lies on a table, asleep. Remy takes a scrap of fabric from the side, and uses it to gag him before inserting a syringe into his arm. Lord Archibald Remington’s eyelids flutter, then open. His eyes bulge, muffled noises of panic coming from his mouth. Stephen walks slowly towards him until he’s in his line of sight. “Hello, Father. You won’t recognise me – you probably forgot I even existed after my mother’s last entreaty. Annabelle Smith – but of course you won’t remember her name either. You slept with her, and fired her when she became pregnant. She had twins. Stephen and Diederik, after her father and grandfather. She’s half-Dutch, not that you care enough to ask. This is Diederik. You can call him Dirk. Yes, I know, we don’t look very much alike.” Dirk sidles up to him, resting his head on his shoulder. Stephen’s arm snakes around his waist.</p><p>Archibald’s eyes are absinthe-green, a characteristic Remy but neither of his other children inherited. Dirk slides a scalpel into Stephen’s hand, receiving an open-mouthed kiss for his troubles, and Stephen smirks at Archibald’s face.</p><p>“Yeah, I forgot to mention. I have a very <em>close </em>relationship with my brother. And maybe with my half-brother, soon.” His eyes flick suggestively to Remy, who blushes. Stephen’s first instinct is to cut out the heart for Dirk, but he manages to tame himself. He purses his lips, considering what he can do without killing him. He switches back to the Japanese knife, and slides it along the ulna, the flap of skin revealing his arm tendons and bone. Archibald makes a muffled, agonised scream.</p><p>“See?” says Remy. “It’s better with sound.”</p><p>Stephen pulls a citrus spoon from his pocket, fingertip trailing the serrated edges. He gives it to Dirk, who inserts it into Archibald’s eye socket, scooping out the eyeball like it was ice-cream, severing the nerves that connect it to his brain. The screams are like the sweetest music.</p><p>Stephen cuts into his chest. The absinthe is still coursing through his system, his blood alcohol level just enough to heighten his senses, to put a soft haze of delirious ecstasy on everything, but not enough to dull his skills. He’s still neat and precise, his movements hypnotising Dirk as he watches his lover’s slender hands grip the scalpel. Blood is spurting out from Archibald’s eye socket, and Dirk dips his head down, tongue exploring the socket. He tastes a little more metallic, a little bitterer than the other person.</p><p>He and Dirk watch the heart together for a moment. It’s frantic and irregular, probably entering ventricular fibrillation. Stephen has to work fast if he’s to gain his prize. He pauses for a fraction of a second, deciding what to cut. He settles on one of the left pulmonary arteries, pressing down on the ventricles of the heart as he severs it. A drop of blood lands in Stephen’s eye, creating a blood-red blur over everything, like an impressionist painting had Monet been trapped in hell.</p><p>The pulses of blood over Stephen’s hand slow as the heart stills, eventually just pooling in the palm of his hand. He cuts the remaining vessels and miscellaneous ties, and calls Remy over.</p><p>“Sorry, Dirk,” Stephen says, giving the organ to Remy. “This one’s going to be properly prepared before consumption.”</p><p>He and Dirk look at each other. The blood at the corner of Dirk’s lips and chin has deepened in colour, but not get dried.</p><p>They suddenly move in tandem, surging towards each other, mouths meeting. Dirk has kept a small pool of blood in his mouth, and when he parts his lips it flows into Stephen. He gives a muffled moan, swallowing. The press of Dirk’s lips on his prevent him from swallowing it all, and a translucent thread of scarlet trails from the corner of his mouth. They pull apart, both panting, both smirking.</p><p>Remy is looking at his father’s heart, lying on the table. He presses against the tricuspid valve, displacing a small amount of blood. It’s cooler, but nowhere near cool enough to congeal. “I’ve got some ice boxes for the organs,” he says, “and some fantastic recipes. Once we get them on ice, we can burn this whole place down.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you liked this, consider checking out my <a href="https://www.patreon.com/alexanderwhitman">Patreon!</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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